THE NEXT DAY, while we were doing some kind of idiot worksheet about blastulas and gastrulas, Mr. Knacke came down my aisle and caught a glimpse of a logo I'd drawn in my notebook. Scorpio Bone—in kind of spiky letters, like the name was made out of hunks of broken glass.
"What, pray tell, is Scorpio Bone?"
"It's a band," I said, feeling his invisible noose slip around my neck.
"What kind of music do they play?"
"Ghost Metal." The noose tightened.
"Is that so? Someone is clearly an imbecile." That was his favorite word. Imbecile. He said it like a Nazi general reaming out his flunkies. "Scorpions are arachnids. They do not have bones."
"Yeah, I know. It's just a name."
Some kids were snickering now, because they knew it was me and Relly's band. And the word had gone around that we were doing the all-ages show at Waterstreet that Sunday.
"That's moronic. Whoever came up with that name is a moron. And I suppose you're even more of a moron for thinking it so worthy that you'd draw it on your belongings."
I didn't say a thing. I could barely breathe. The noose pulled up hard and I knew he was going to keep on tightening it.